Dead Even

by Brad Meltzer

  “I hear it’s been a rough day,” Wayne said as he closed the door to his office.

  “It certainly hasn’t been my best,” Jared responded.

  “That may be the case,” Wayne said, taking a seat behind his large, but otherwise understated, walnut desk. “But days like this are not what built this firm. You have to understand, Jared, this firm was built with good, hard, roll-up-your-sleeves—”

  “I understand what you’re saying, sir,” Jared interrupted. “But I have to be honest with you—Rose Microsystems may’ve paid a large sum of money, but I truly believe we saved them from a far worse alternative. No matter how much they kick and scream, I stand behind my work and its result.”

  “Jared, have you ever heard of Percy Foreman?”

  “The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know who—”

  “Percy Foreman defended James Earl Ray when he killed Martin Luther King, Jr. And regardless of what you think of the moral issues, Percy was one of the greatest defense attorneys of all time. At one point in his career, he was defending a wealthy socialite who was accused of killing her husband. To take the case, Percy charged her five million dollars. Five million. Even by today’s standards, that’s obscene. But the woman paid, and Percy went to work. Throughout the trial, he dodged and slithered and cajoled his way out of every argument. And in the end, he won her a verdict of not guilty. But the press—they couldn’t get over the fact that this woman was charged those exorbitant legal fees. So when they got Percy on the courthouse steps, they asked him why he charged five million dollars. And with a straight face, Percy looked out at the crowd and said he charged her that amount because that was all she had.”

  Wayne looked straight at Jared. “That’s the kind of attorney we need here. Being smart is fine; being honest is fine; even being aggressive is fine. But to bring in real business, the most important quality you can have is the confidence in your ability to win. Clients want to follow success—if they can smell the confidence on you, they’ll have confidence in you. And if they have that confidence, they’ll always trust you, and they’ll never argue with your decisions.

  “That’s the problem you had this afternoon, Jared,” Wayne continued. “If Rose had complete confidence in you, he would have written that check with a smile. Instead, he’s threatening to leave, taking his three-million-dollar account with him. Now, if you were bringing in new clients, we’d care far less about losing Rose’s business. But looking at your records, it appears that client development is hardly your strong suit.”

  “I know,” Jared said. “But I’m trying my best to—”

  “Getting new clients requires more than just your best. It requires you to convince people to trust you with their lives. If we don’t have that trust, we can’t keep old clients, and we certainly can’t attract new ones. And if we can’t attract new ones, we can’t grow as a firm. And if we can’t grow as a firm, well, making partner becomes that much more difficult. Do you see what I’m trying to say, Jared?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Jared said, struggling to sound enthusiastic. “But you don’t have to worry. I know the value of old clients, I know the value of new clients, and without question, I know the value of being a partner in this firm.”

  “Wonderful,” Wayne said. “Then I’m glad we had this talk.”

  At ECAB, Sara, Conrad, and Guff headed straight to an office in the back of the room. Sara sat down behind the desk.

  “Okay,” Conrad said. “Ask her the question.”

  “A man pretending to have occult powers promises a sweet little old lady that he can exorcise the evil spirits affecting her little kitty named Shirley,” Guff said. “What can you get him for?”

  “Huh?”

  “The crime,” Guff explained. “What crime can you charge the evil-spirit guy with?”

  As Sara looked down at the New York statute book on the desk, Conrad said, “Don’t use the book. Use what you know.”

  “I’m not sure,” Sara said. “I guess it would be fraud.”

  “You guess?” Conrad asked. “You can’t just guess. You’re an assistant district attorney. When a cop makes an arrest, he comes to you with the paperwork, and you’re the one who decides what the crime is. That means you have to know the elements of every crime, as well as the statutes.”

  “No, you’re definitely right,” Sara said. “I should’ve—”

  “Don’t kick yourself about it. Just keep going—use the book and find the crime.”

  Opening the book, Sara flipped through its pages. Speed-reading through New York’s numerous offenses, she searched for the answer to Guff’s hypothetical question. For almost three minutes, Conrad and Guff stared at her, not saying a word. Finally, she looked up. “Fortune-telling.”

  “Explain,” Conrad said.

  Sara read from the book. “In New York, if you pretend to use occult powers to exorcise or affect evil spirits, you can be charged with fortune-telling.”

  “And the defense is?”

  “You can do it if it’s for the purpose of entertainment or amusement,” she said, wiping her brow.

  “Exactly,” Conrad said. “Which is why we haven’t busted the Great Zamboni and all the rest of them.”

  “What does this have to do with my burglary case?”

  “Are you sure it’s burglary?” Conrad countered. “Maybe it’s breaking and entering. Maybe it’s larceny. And what about robbery? The only way to find out is by looking at the individual facts. Knowing the facts tells you the crime. For example, if you take someone’s money and then hit them, it’s a robbery. But if you take their money, throw it back at them when they scream, and then hit them to shut them up, it’s no longer a robbery because you don’t have their property. The key is to get all the details.”

  “Think of it as a movie,” Guff said. “Break it down frame by frame. If you’re missing a frame, you still don’t have the complete picture.”

  “Okay,” Sara said, refusing to be overwhelmed. “I can do this.” She read from the complaint report: “After receiving a radio call reporting a break-in and describing the defendant, the officer picked up the defendant two blocks from the burglary. When they returned to 201 East Eighty-second Street, the victim identified the defendant as the burglar. After searching defendant’s pockets, a diamond Ebel watch, a sterling silver golf ball, and four hundred and seventeen dollars were recovered, all of them belonging to the victim.”

  “Now,” Conrad said, “that gives you about three percent of what actually happened.”

  “Why?” Sara asked, confused.

  “Because of the way arrests work—everyone’s trying to make himself look great.” Leaning forward, Conrad grabbed the complaint report from Sara’s hands. “You can see it right here: The cop uses the word ‘burglary.’ It’s not the cop’s job to identify the crime that’s supposed to be charged. That’s your job. And how do we know the description on the radio matched what Kozlow was wearing? And who reported the burglary? Was it the victim or was it an anonymous tip? If it’s anonymous—”

  “The judge may exclude the evidence if the source can’t be verified,” Sara said. “So you’re saying I need to talk to the cop.”

  “Exactly,” Conrad answered. He pointed to the tiny video camera on top of the ECAB computer. “Face-to-face on the videophone.”

  “That’s pretty high-tech,” Sara said, moving her head close to the camera.

  “I actually think it’s terrible,” Conrad said, “but I won’t get into it.”

  “Well, I think it’s fantastic,” Guff added. “Things like this bring us one step closer to the Jetsons and their magical animated world of the future.”

  Ignoring Guff, Sara said, “Okay, so I call the cop up and get all the details. Then when I’m done with that, I write up the official complaint and start all over again.”

  “What do you mean start all over again?”

  “I mean, if I’m dead set on keeping this job, I’m going to need more than one measly case,
don’t you think?”

  “I told you she was hungry,” Guff said.

  “Without question, you should grab every case you can get your hands on,” Conrad said to Sara. “But don’t forget one thing: As long as Victor’s supervising, he’s not going to give you anything but throwaways. You’re going to be prosecuting every pickpocket in Manhattan.”

  “Is there any way around that?”

  “Considering you already pissed off Evelyn, I doubt it.”

  “Okay. No big deal. That’s why they call it paying your dues,” Sara said, trying to sound positive. “Whatever it is, I’m ready to do it.”

  “Keep up that attitude,” Conrad said. “But when you’re done catching cases, make sure you go home and rest for a while. The arraignment’s going to be at around eleven o’clock tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Sara asked. “I didn’t know arraignments went on that late.”

  “This is New York City,” Conrad said. “Home of sixteen million people, all of whom hate each other. Arraignments here are open around the clock.”

  “I’ll be there.” As she picked up the phone and dialed Officer Michael McCabe’s telephone number, Conrad got out of his seat. “Where’re you going?” Sara asked.

  “I have my own work to do. I’ll see you in arraignments—it’s on the first floor of this building. Get there early to be safe.”

  “See you later,” Sara said as Conrad left the office.

  When the officer answered his phone, Sara explained that she was calling about the Kozlow arrest and wanted to speak to him via videophone. She then hung up the phone and waited for the officer to call her back. Two minutes later, her phone rang.

  “Pick it up and hit ‘Receive,’” Guff said, pointing to an electronic icon on her computer screen.

  When she followed Guff’s instructions, Officer McCabe’s face appeared in full color on her computer screen. “Can you hear me?” Sara asked, leaning toward the tiny video camera.

  “Oh, great.” The officer rolled his eyes. “A rookie.”

  “Save your moaning. I know what I’m doing.”

  “She’s got six years of law firm experience,” Guff said, sticking his head into the camera’s path.

  “Who the hell is that?” McCabe asked.

  “No one,” Sara said, pushing Guff away. “Now why don’t we get started. Tell me everything that happened.”

  With his high-back Moroccan leather chair pulled up to his nineteenth-century French partner’s desk, Oscar Rafferty calmly flipped through the pages of the Cat on a Hot Tin Roof German rights contract. All it took was a phone call. Actually, that wasn’t true. It was a phone call and a quick visit in his office. That’s what closed the deal. Since the moment Rafferty entered the world of intellectual property, he’d known the power of making an impression. That was how he had gotten where he was. From the hand-sewn carpets to the Calder mobile in the corner of the room, he always did his best to show the best. And if he needed more proof of the payoff, all he had to do was look at the drying ink on the contract in front of him. It had taken less than forty-five minutes to make that four million dollars. Even by banking industry standards, that was a great hourly rate.

  Expanding on a theme, Rafferty always kept three phones on his desk. With current technology, he could easily combine them in one, but the visual effect on his clients was worth the loss of desk space. When the middle phone rang—his personal line—he picked it up on the first ring. “This better be good news.”

  “I don’t know if it’s good news, but it is information,” the private detective said at the other end of the line. “Her name is Sara Tate. She’s thirty-two years old and was born and raised in Manhattan. Six months ago, she was fired from her old law firm, which really brought her down a peg, and she just started at the DA’s office. According to some of her old associates at the law firm, she’s aggressive, blunt, and as passionate as they come. One guy said she second-guesses herself a lot and that she can be real volatile, but he also agreed she’s no fool.”

  “What else did they say?” Rafferty asked, searching for weaknesses. “How is she in court?”

  “Only one of them had seen her do anything firsthand. He said she comes off as a real person, which is a tough feat for most lawyers these days.”

  “You think she’s a threat?”

  “Every new prosecutor’s a threat. When it’s their first case, they’re all trying to succeed. What makes Sara dangerous, though, is that it’s about more than success—with the cutbacks, she needs this job to survive, and that means she’s going to be pulling out every stop to win.”

  “That’s what Victor said.”

  “The man knows his business.”

  Rafferty pondered this. “Do we know why she got fired?”

  “Not yet, but I can find out. My guess is she crossed someone she shouldn’t have. No one would get into it, but I could hear it in their voices. If you push her, she’ll push back—hard.”

  “What about her family?”

  “Middle-class background. Dad was a salesman, Mom was a legal secretary. Both of them came from nothing, although you couldn’t tell it by looking at Sara. They died years ago in a car wreck, but according to her old colleagues, it’s still a rough issue for her.”

  “Good. That’s one way in. Any other relatives?”

  “She has a grandfather and a husband.”

  “Tell me about the husband.”

  “His name is Jared Lynch. He’s from a wealthy suburb in Chicago, but worked hard to get where he is. Dad’s a retired stockbroker; Mom still plays housewife. He’s got two younger brothers, and they all live in Chicago. Financially, Sara and Jared have a small IRA set aside for them by Jared’s family, but in terms of available funds, they’re barely scraping it together. When Sara lost her job, the income loss hit them pretty hard. From what I can tell, they cashed in almost all of their savings in the past six months.”

  “That’s what happens when they kick you out of a high-paying job,” Rafferty commented. “What does Jared do?”

  “For the past six years, he’s been doing defense work at a law firm—big place called Wayne and Portnoy.”

  “He’s a defense attorney?”

  “Can you believe it? Two lawyers in one family. Shoot me now or forever hold your peace.”

  “Actually, that’s good news.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Let’s just say I’m starting to see some interesting possibilities.”

  At their Upper West Side brownstone, a block from the Museum of Natural History, Sara ran up the stairs two at a time and unlocked the front door of their apartment. The living room was dark. “Damn,” she said. Jared wasn’t home yet. She flipped on the lights and hit the play button on the answering machine. There was one message. “Sara, it’s Tiffany. Are you there?” Sara listened to the voice of the young girl she mentored through the Big Sisters program. “Want to hear what it’d sound like if you were a rock star?” Tiffany asked. “Saaaaaara! Saaaaaara!” There was a short pause “Saaaaaara! Saaaaaara!” There was a longer pause. “You didn’t think I’d do it again, did you? Anyway, call me. Don’t forget we have plans Thursday night. Hi, Jared. Bye.”

  Laughing at the message, Sara headed to the kitchen and started dinner. Their division of chores was simple: The first person home did the cooking, the second one home did the cleaning. Given a choice, Sara always preferred to clean and Jared favored cooking. It was something he had picked up from his father, who liked to experiment in the kitchen.

  Sara and Jared’s one-bedroom apartment encompassed the second floor of the five-story brownstone. And while it had a separate dining room and a nice-sized bedroom, the largest room in the apartment was the living room. With its overstuffed slipcovered sofa and its wine-colored oversized armchair, it was the best place to relax and unwind.

  Decorated in what Sara called a “funky heirloom” style, the apartment was a mixture of Sara’s informality and Jared’s love of collecting. Dur
ing law school, Jared had spent his time hunting down lobby cards and rare movie posters. When he graduated, he moved on to actual movie props. And when they had paid back exactly half of Sara’s eighty-thousand-dollar law school loans, Jared celebrated by buying his first expensive collectible: one of Kirk Douglas’s shields from the film Spartacus, which was hung on the wall over the sofa. Since that time, he’d added a bag of corn nuts from Heathers, a salt-and-pepper-shaker set from Diner, an ornate scroll from A Man for All Seasons, and, the prize of his collection, the knife that Roman Polanski used to cut Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. Jared saw his collection as a way to preserve pop history, while Sara saw it as a way to keep Jared happy.

  Sara, on the other hand, was kept happy by the six framed pictures on the right-hand wall. Over the past six years, on every wedding anniversary, Sara had drawn a portrait of Jared. Although never professionally trained, she had always loved to draw. She didn’t like to paint, she never sketched, and when she drew, it was never with pencil—only with ink. She didn’t need it to be perfect; what you saw was what you got.

  Sara crushed garlic, chopped onions, sliced peppers, and cut up the other ingredients for a home-cooked tomato sauce. In truth, she was just as content eating sauce from a jar, but the hope that she was on the path to saving her job put her in the mood to surprise Jared with the real thing. Fifteen minutes later, Jared walked through the door. He took one look at Sara and smiled.

  “Guess your day got a lot better,” Jared said.

  “It was incredible,” Sara said, unable to contain her excitement as she ran to hug him. “I just started working on them, but they’re completely my own cases. My own facts, my own defendants, my own everything.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s more than one?”

  “I got five. The burglary, plus two shoplifters, a pickpocket, and a drug possession. The burglary’s the only one that’s really trial-worthy, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s all finally happening—just like you said.”